


Eighteen Years

by Jae Gecko (jaegecko)



Series: The Turning-universe stories [16]
Category: West Wing
Genre: Canon Related, Episode Related, F/M, Gen, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2007-05-30
Updated: 2007-11-11
Packaged: 2017-11-23 12:36:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaegecko/pseuds/Jae%20Gecko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A set of short pieces set in the Turningverse that cover the eighteen years post-"Winter Sun" that lead up to the final story, which will be called "Any Dream." Some are vignettes and some are short stories, but each is only one scene, and they're in chronological order. Ultimately, this will consist of a total of eighteen pieces covering a total of eighteen years, but it won't be one piece per year (what can I say; some years are more eventful than others!). (Takes place between August 2003 and March 2021.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wrong Turn

**Author's Note:**

> Unlike the other Turningverse stories, these short pieces aren't at all meant to stand alone--they're intrinsically connected to the rest of the Turningverse series (and, for that matter, to the last three seasons of the show), and are probably both terribly boring and kind of frustrating out of that context. Be warned!

**Sam: August 2003**

The sun angled through the blinds like a spotlight, hitting my hand where it rested on the fax machine. I pressed the send button and the machine hummed to life. Smiling, I pinned my phone to my shoulder with my chin, listening to it ring.

"Braddock and Crick, Mr. Braddock's office," a voice answered.

"This is Sam Seaborn," I said, relaxing against the back of my chair.

"Mr. Seaborn, of course." The voice was a woman's, and friendly.

"Don't tell me--it's Lorraine, right?"

"Good memory." I could hear her smile. "Mr. Braddock is actually in a meeting, but I can see if--"

"Oh, don't bother him," I said. "I just wanted to give you a heads-up that I've just signed the contract, and I'm faxing it through to HR now." 

My BlackBerry chirped out a new-email alert, and I glanced at the screen. Josh. The corner of my mouth turned up. It would be another four years before Martha Jenkins would be stepping down from her Senate seat, but Josh already had me making contacts and getting backers in line. It was all work, but work had always been the part we did well. It was surprisingly nice to have a common goal again.

"That's really great, Mr. Seaborn. We're so glad to have you." Her voice was businesslike, but the enthusiasm was genuine.

I pulled the BlackBerry closer, scrolling over to the mail icon to pull up Josh's message. _I can get you in to talk to the president of SF State Thursday at 2. Can you get a flight?_

I sniffed. I seriously needed to hire a real campaign manager. 

"Go ahead and call me Sam," I said into the phone.

"Sam. Okay." Lorraine's voice relaxed a notch. "Well, if we're on a first-name basis, then I suppose it's all right to tell you that Mr. Braddock's been walking around like the Cheshire cat ever since you accepted his offer. I haven't seen him this pleased with himself since he beat the pants off of Joe Dale at Lost Canyons last fall."

I grinned. It'd be good to have a chance to show him what I could do. "I'll do my best to live up to the hype."

I picked up the BlackBerry and keyed in a message with my thumb and forefinger. _took job @ braddock & crick. days will be harder. maybe in a few months?_ I sent it off.

"You'll be starting on Wednesday?" Lorraine asked.

The chair rumbled against the floor as I rolled over to the desk and glanced at my calendar. "I could actually come in tomorrow, if that would be better." There was no reason not to sound eager now that the Is had been dotted and the Ts crossed.

"Your office is ready whenever you are."

The phone on my BlackBerry started ringing, and I looked down automatically. Josh again. "I'll see you tomorrow, then," I said to Lorraine.

"See you tomorrow," she repeated.

I set down the receiver in its cradle and held the BlackBerry up to my ear. "You know, I've been getting your emails just fine," I teased. "That's kind of what these handy little devices are for."

"You're taking a job? At a law firm?" He sounded incredulous.

I ran a finger down the side of my computer monitor, sending a couple of ancient sticky notes fluttering to the desk. "Yeah, I'm supposed to start tomorrow. I just got off the phone with them."

"Well, call back and tell them you changed your mind." 

"What? No!" My face screwed up in confusion, and I planted an elbow on the desk. "Wait, why?"

"I have to spell this out for you?" Josh's voice had that outraged squeak to it, the one he usually reserved for talking about House Republicans. "You're running for Senate?"

I rolled my eyes. "And you're the White House Deputy Chief of Staff. That hasn't stopped you from organizing my speaking engagements."

"You're seriously going to work for a lawyer named Crook?"

"Did I key that in wrong?" I held the BlackBerry up in front of me and glanced at the screen. "It's Crick. You know, Braddock and Crick? One of the best mid-size firms in L.A? James Braddock gave a boatload of money to my Congressional campaign."

"Yeah, well, if you go work for him, it's going to jeopardize everything we've planned."

"Because of a potentially damaging typo?" I smirked. "Or wait, do they even _let_ lawyers run for Senate?"

"Whatever happened to 'I'll never practice law again?'"

A tension formed along my jawline, and I ground my teeth together. That had been another lifetime, and we'd both said a lot of things back then that we didn't mean. "Okay, seriously. Jenkins was always going to finish her term. We both knew that from the beginning. And I need to be doing something."

"You're writing op-eds. You're giving speeches. You're...kissing babies."

I pushed out a sigh. "And I'm sorry, but I'm not going to spend another four years doing nothing but that." My jaw slid forward. I shouldn't have had to justify this to him.

"All right, cards on the table." He hissed out a breath. "This is because of Carrick?" 

"Who?" 

Then it hit me: Congressman Carrick, Democrat from the Idaho 2nd. At least, until his last showdown with Josh. Now he was the newest sheep in the Republican fold.

"You don't trust me to do this." Josh's voice was suddenly brittle.

"It's not about Carrick."

"The hell it's not," he mumbled.

I swallowed, the fog of my annoyance dissolving. Last I'd heard from Toby, Leo had reduced Josh's portfolio and they were thinking about bringing in Angela Blake to lighten his load. For the last few weeks he'd probably been banging his head against the walls of the West Wing, and they were never going to yield.

"Josh, it's really not that, all right?" I leaned forward, the edge of my desk pressing into my stomach. "Listen to me. You're the best there is. I know that, and a couple of years from now, I'm really going to need you. But right now, what this campaign needs is a manager. Somebody out here in California, not somebody who's moonlighting from the White House."

He didn't respond.

"And I'm going to need your connections inside the party to help me find the right guy. But that's all you can do for me right now."

There was nothing on the other end. I pulled the BlackBerry away from my ear and glanced at the screen. We were still connected.

"Jenkins isn't going anywhere until 2008," I said, trying again. "Willis will probably run against me in the primary, but he's nobody at this point. I need to do something else. Something I'm good at."

"What are you going to do, work for them for another couple of years and then quit?" His voice was quieter now.

"They've already said I can take leave to run. They've been very supportive." I caught a breath. "And if I win...we'll see." I leaned back in my chair, letting the sun splash against my face. "I'll give you a call if we need your help."

"If?"

The corner of my mouth quirked. "When."

"You're going to be able to find time to run for Senate? While you're working eighty-hour weeks at some law firm?"

"I'll make the time." Confidence radiated from my voice, enough to carry across the line. "It's a good offer. They're good people. This isn't Gage Whitney. It's a whole different world."

"But right now, you've got to be--"

"Josh," I said, cutting him off as gently as I could. "This isn't up to you."

I could hear him breathing on the other end of the line, but the pause seemed to stretch into minutes. "Okay. I should go," he finally said, his voice rough.

A fist clenched around my stomach. Suddenly it dawned on me that this had been a fight. A fight without yelling, but somehow it seemed just as serious. "Wait," I said, holding a hand up like he could see me.

My mind grabbed for something to say, but nothing came. 

"I'll talk to you soon," he said quickly, and the connection went dead.

A cavern of silence enveloped the room, and I set my BlackBerry down on my desk. For the last five months Josh had said that at the end of every conversation, and for the last five months it had always been true. But I couldn't shake the feeling that this time had been different.


	2. The Rabble-Rousing Fringe

**Sam: August 2004**

The sun was beating down on the back of my neck, but the applause from the crowd rolled out like thunder to spite the cloudless sky. I shot one last smile at the crowd and stepped off the makeshift stage onto an even ricketier staircase. A gangly, freckled redhead met me at the edge of the grass with a water bottle. She pressed it into my hand. A salty summer breeze floated up from the ocean.

She gave the emcee a gentle nudge. "Okay, Boulton's up next. And could you get the sound guy to turn the mike down a notch?"

I unscrewed the water bottle and took a sip, feeling my eyes unfocus into a haze. It was always like this after a big speech: the energy of the crowd would give way to too many days of three-hour nights. I propped myself up against the scaffolding at the edge of the stage. "So where do you need me now?" I asked the woman, glancing at her name tag. _Valerie._

"You've got about twenty minutes until we need you back on the stage with Senator Jenkins," Valerie said. "But after that you're a free man."

"Thanks." I relaxed further against the scaffolding, turning the water bottle over in my hand as it sweated against my palm. Past the podium on the other side of the stage I could see the Senator, talking to someone and sipping from her own identical bottle. I glanced at my watch. In about three hours I'd be off to the airport, and then it was back to the office. One of these days I was really going to need to trade in my standard-issue leather couch for a fold-out bed.

"I liked your speech, by the way," Valerie said.

I gave her a smile. "Thanks."

"You're good. It's a shame you worked for Bartlet."

Another wave of exhaustion drained the smile from my face. But it was a candidate's job to listen to the voters complain, and even if it still wasn't official, a candidate was exactly what I was. "I take it you have a problem with the President?"

She tucked a strand of long red hair behind her ear, exposing a row of identical hoop earrings. "He's been in the White House for six years now. I'd think he'd be able to find at least a little bit of time to keep the FCC in line."

Common Cause California seemed to be made up of a combination of ordinary idealists and the rabble-rousing fringe. "Let me guess. The Janet Jackson Superbowl incident? With the, um." I motioned in front of my chest with my right hand. I dropped my eyes, glancing off the gesture, which suddenly looked obscene. I let the hand fall to my side. "Fines?"

She snorted. "Uh, no. Media regulation."

I shot another glance at my watch. "Congress shall make no law abridging the freedom of the press," I quoted.

"So you're a strict constructionist, then? Isn't the whole point of the First Amendment to ensure that a proper level of civic discourse takes place?" 

A round of applause floated up from the crowd. I looked back up at her. "You...have a point."

"This isn't the eighteenth century," she went on, planting herself squarely in front of me. Debate isn't taking place in town squares anymore. We can't promote free speech just by prohibiting government involvement."

I took another sip of water. "What kind of regulation do you have in mind?"

"Hey, Ward," a girl called out, walking by with a small amp in her hands. Her face was as freckled as Valerie's. "Doug says to quit picking on the speakers, or they won't come back."

Valerie turned to her, waving a dismissal. "Oh, hush, I'm just getting to the punchline." She turned back to me. "What we need is a law requiring the FCC to explicitly embrace the promotion of civic discourse. With any given medium, policymakers need to ask themselves whether the public is able use it to transmit information at will. That goes for television, radio, the Internet, everything."

I found myself nodding. 

"And where they can't, those policymakers need to ask what the government can do to realize that medium's potential. It's perfectly compatible with First Amendment principles. It would help make those principles a reality."

It was a coherent position, and a good one. "You know it would never get past this Congress, right?"

She folded her arms, her eyes glinting with mischief. "Well, then we'll just have to elect a different Congress, won't we?"

I laughed. "Well, that's something we definitely agree on." I took a step back, looking her over again. With her khaki shorts and a white t-shirt, she was out of uniform, but these weren't the arguments of the rabble-rousing fringe. "You're a lawyer."

She shrugged. "Yeah, but I'm one of the good guys."

At the back of my mind, a light began to dawn. I pointed at her nametag. "Valerie." I gestured over my shoulder at the amp girl. "Ward. Wait. Didn't you--you worked for the FCC!"

She let out a little strangled scream, and it turned into a laugh. "Aaah, you found me out!" She ducked her head a little in mock-embarrassment.

I shook my head in disbelief, lifting my finger to point at her face. "You were Deputy Director of Legislative Affairs!"

"All right, all right, I surrender," she said, hanging her head. "But in my defense, I left that snake pit five years ago."

I smirked. "I hope you're not still using them as a reference. Something tells me you've probably burned a few bridges."

"Oh, God, no. These days, people know me from the Media and Democracy Project." She wedged an elbow into a gap in the scaffolding, leaning against it. "Though that's out of date, too, as of last month."

"Media and Democracy--I've heard of it," I said, nodding. "Public interest law firm? Here in San Francisco?"

"It's a great one. But I'm consulting full-time now. A little bit for MDP, a little bit for...oh, pretty much everybody." She waved a hand in front of her. "Gives me a chance to be my own boss for a change. I'm a little too much of a lone wolf, I think."

"And that's what you're doing here for Common Cause?" I raised an eyebrow at her. "Consulting? As what...the person who tells the speakers where to stand?"

"No, I'm volunteering." She grinned. "You should try it sometime."

"Okay, I've seriously got to take off," the amp girl said, a little out of breath as she ran up to Valerie. Her face was as red as her hair.

"Oh, come on, stay for the end," Valerie said, tossing her head and scattering her hair across her shoulders. "There's going to be a thing with the Senator. You'll like it, she's really cool."

"I can't, I have a Spanish test."

"Ah, the glamorous life of a college student," she said with a sniff. She shooed the amp girl away with a wave of her hand. "All right. Go on."

I pointed at each of them in turn. "Hey, are you two related? Because the resemblance is really uncanny."

The amp girl shot Valerie a sideways glare. "I don't know, how annoying has she been acting? I mean, if I told you she was my mom, would it make me look bad?"

"Not even a little," I said, smiling.

"At least you didn't ask if we were sisters," the amp girl said. "She loves it way too much when people say that." She kissed Valerie on the cheek. " _Hasta luego_." She strutted off.

Valerie smiled at me again, and this time it spread to her eyes. They were pale green, and the tiny lines that pulled at the edges of them only made her look more timeless. I smiled back. She had a nice smile.

"Hey, I'm sorry for coming at you with guns blazing like that," she said. "They keep me far away from Bartlet's people these days, so you're probably the closest I'm going to get."

"It was fun," I said, my smile spreading into a grin.

"I'll tell you what." She touched me on the arm, somewhere between a tap and a poke. "I'll make it up to you. There's this great little café right around the corner. Let me buy you dinner."

I blinked. She was asking me out. My palm was suddenly hot against the water bottle. "I've got to catch the 7:30 shuttle to LAX."

"Early dinner, then. I can drop you at the airport." 

I shot another glance at my watch. I could probably just make it. I tilted my head at her. "You know, I'd like that." A spark lit up her eyes, and she hugged her arms to her chest, folding them under the curve of her breasts.

"And I bet if we gave Sam Seaborn another round of applause, he'd come back out," an overly miked voice boomed in the speakers overhead. 

I looked up at the stage. Senator Jenkins was peering down at me from behind the podium, a curious grin on her face. The emcee motioned to me, and the crowd started to cheer. 

"Let me guess," I said to Valerie, my eyes not moving from the stage. "I was supposed to be up there a few minutes ago."

"Oh, _fuck_ ," she yelped, between clenched teeth. "Go."

With a sharp push at my back she shoved me toward the stairs, and I stumbled against the bottom step, grabbing onto the flimsy railing just in time to break my fall. I walked up onto the stage. A flush crept from my neck to my face as the applause swelled. 

Automatically, my hand lifted to wave at the crowd, but it was still holding the water bottle. It looked like I was proposing a toast, and I let my arm fall to my side again. A young guy in the front row raised his own in response, shaking it at me.

I stole a glance offstage. Valerie had both hands clasped over her mouth, stifling what looked like hysterical laughter. She moved them down to her chin. _Sorry_ , she mouthed at me.

I tried to glare at her, but I couldn't stop grinning.


	3. Interruptus

**Sam: September 2004**

Valerie's finger traveled down the front of my shirt, sliding each button open as she moved south. The edge of the couch cushion was digging into my back, and I shifted, giving her room to slip down next to me. The room smelled of sweat and of a decanter of Cabernet on the coffee table.

Her hand slid underneath my T-shirt and against my bare skin. I swallowed a gasp that was only partly about the tugging in my groin. It had been decades since I'd thought of myself as gay, but responding like this to a woman made me feel like a teenager all over again. It had been six years since Lisa. No, seven. My stomach clenched. I was going to have to relearn everything.

Just for a moment, her hand paused on my belt buckle. Then she started unbuckling it with one hand while the other one pressed against my erection through my pants. My brain flooded with static, and if I didn't say it now, I was-- "Wait," I said, panting. "We should--"

"Condom's in my purse."

"No, I..." I grabbed her wrist. She looked up at me, her face flushed red through the freckles and her hair scattered across my chest. "I haven't done this in a while."

She shot me a grin and dove back down, running her lips across my stomach. "Don't worry, it's like riding a bicycle," she murmured.

I closed my eyes, willing my body to relax. She shoved my T-shirt up and went back to work on my belt, her hair fluttering against my bare skin. My fingernails dug into the couch cushion, my stomach muscles cramping. I had to tell her something. Tell her everything. 

I jerked away from her, sitting up against the arm of the couch. A breath shuddered out of my lungs. 

Valerie propped herself up with a fist on her cheek. She was frowning. "So it's been a couple of months since you've slept with a woman. So what?"

I gave her a tight-lipped smile.

Her eyebrows shot up. "More than a couple of months?"

My face flushed hot. "Does it help if I say I've been married to my career?"

She shook her head, her eyes wide. "Okay, you must have been beating them back with a stick." She tilted her head against my leg and gave me a playful grin, running a hand up the side of my leg. "Oh, I get it, now," she said. "You've been sleeping with men."

I blinked. That certainly wasn't what I'd expected her to say. "Uh..." A nervous laugh spilled out of my mouth. "Not exactly, no." I swallowed. The door was open, and I couldn't close it now. "But my last, um...he was. A man."

Her eyebrows inched up, and her mouth dropped open. "Oh."

My heart raced. She was watching me, waiting for...something. She wasn't moving. 

She rolled over on top of me, folding her hands against my legs. "Are you going to tell me about it?"

She didn't know what she was asking for. I let out a nervous laugh and looked away, then slowly let my gaze slide back to her. She was still there.

Her head was tilted to one side, and her eyes narrowed slightly, a look of curiosity. Sitting up, she reached over to the table for her wine glass. She leaned back against the couch and gestured for me to continue.

I started out carefully, stammering through the early years, but once I hit the first Bartlet campaign, it all came out in a burst: the secrets, the shooting, the spectacularly awful ending. The look on Valerie's face was impassive, then sympathetic. She stretched her leg out along my side, and her hand dropped to mine in a reassuring pressure.

"We both kind of keep our distance now, I guess," I finished. Or it's sort of turned out that way, anyway. We're both busy, so that's part of it, but things are also...strange. Strained. He's on my Christmas card list and I get the occasional email forward from him, and that's all, I swear. But we also have sort of...an understanding."

She raised a single eyebrow at me, swirling her wine glass. "An understanding? Like an 'if you're ever in the same place again, you'll fuck like bunnies' understanding?"

The corner of my mouth quirked. "No, more like an 'I'm going to run for Senate in 2008, and he's going to help me out' understanding."

Her jaw dropped again. "You're going to--okay, that explains why you were speaking at a Common Cause fundraiser up in San Francisco." She shook her head, her eyes wide. "Wow. You're full of surprises tonight." She tilted her head, scrutinizing me. "You'd make a good Senator."

I grinned. "I know."

She rolled her eyes. "You've got the ego for it, too," she said, shifting around to slide in next to me. Her arm snaked around my back and she rested her hand on my chest.

I curled my own hand around hers, weaving our fingers together. "So this isn't a thing?"

Her eyes flicked up at me. "The Senate? I think it's great."

"No." I shrugged. "The, um. Other thing."

"Hmm." Her fingers drummed against my stomach, and her eyes looked thoughtful. "Well, is he some kind of psycho?"

I shook my head. "Who?"

"This guy. Josh. Is he going to hunt me down and kill me for sleeping with his man?"

"What?" I sat bolt upright. "No!"

"Well, does he have some sort of financial hold over you? Is he going to take you for all you're worth and leave me paying for dinner?"

I felt myself start to smile. "No."

She traced a finger down my chest, poking at my breastbone. "So basically, you interrupted what was turning out to be a very nice moment to tell me about your ex. Who you stopped seeing years ago, and who's living on the other side of the country. Because, what...you're going to have to spend some time with him in 2008?"

I laughed. "Okay, when you put it like that--"

"You thought I was going to bolt, didn't you." She gave me a little smile, cupping a hand around my face.

I squeezed her forearm. "The thought had crossed my mind."

"I'm from San Francisco, okay? If I refused to sleep with everybody who'd ever slept with another guy, I'd be as celibate as you." She crawled on top of me, grinding her hips against me. "Besides, everybody's got that one weird relationship with the one that got away. Mine is named Phil." She leaned in toward me, her face inches from mine, her eyes unwavering. "So now will you sleep with me?"

A grin spread across my face. I pulled her down to me, pressing my mouth against hers. Her lips parted, and she ran her tongue over mine, sending shivers down my neck.

"Wait," I said, sitting up a little. "Did you want to tell me about Phil?"

Valerie let out a little scream. She sat up, grabbed a couch cushion, and hit me with it.


	4. Three Questions

**Sam: October 2006**

The California sun was impossibly bright after the windowless gymnasium, and I shielded my eyes against the sky. The cloud they'd had to release into the air around the San Andreo nuclear plant in an attempt to avoid a meltdown had left behind levels of radiation well above safe limits. Which had left all the people who lived in the area--hundreds of thousands of them--suddenly homeless.

My mind flashed back on their faces, and I tried to engrave them on my memory. Laura and Jack, the elderly couple who'd had to leave their dog behind. Sharon, the young mother with the little girl who didn't understand why she couldn't go home. But the little girl would go home, eventually, thanks to two dead engineers. I let a slow breath out through my nose. It could have been so much worse.

"Hey, stranger."

I knew that voice. I spun around, a smile spreading across my face. "Donna!"

She was standing on the street corner, her arms folded and the corner of her mouth turning up at the edge. I hugged her automatically, and her hand pressed against my back.

I pulled back to look at her. Her navy blue suit was stylish, and her face a little wiser, somehow. Not older, just more self-assured. High-level campaign work had been good to her. "You look terrific," I said.

"Thank you." She squeezed my arm. "You look pretty good yourself."

"So what are you doing here?"

"Same thing you're doing here, I assume. I'm the advance team for Santos' visit tomorrow."

I nodded. The only bright side to all this was that Arnie Vinick--Matt Santos' opponent for president and a strong supporter of nuclear power--was probably having as bad a day as the people who would spend the next little while living out of a gymnasium. "The polls look promising."

"Yeah, it's going well." Donna's eyes glinted, and she leaned in a little. "Potentially really well. Florida, Ohio, South Carolina, California are all within the margin of error now." The smile drained from her face, and she pulled back. "And you just got done talking to the evacuees, so that probably sounded really awful."

The corner of my mouth quirked. "Yeah, well. I'm not going to pretend I wasn't here for my own photo-op."

"That reminds me, we should get Santos to do something with you. With twenty-two days to the election I'm sure we'll be back to California."

I shrugged. "Sure. Have Josh give Joseph a call." I shot a glance at my watch. I had to get moving.

"You got a minute to talk? We could grab some lunch. You could tell me what Santos is in for tomorrow."

I pressed my mouth into a tight smile. "I really can't. I've got to get a cab to the train station--there's a meeting at my firm this afternoon that I can't miss."

"I could drop you." She looked over her shoulder, gesturing. "That's my car."

I craned my neck. A little blue Ford was parked right on the corner. I smiled. "Well, great. Thanks."

Donna pressed the button on her keychain, and the car chirped, unlocking the doors. "Is this the new bullet train you're taking?" she said, climbing in. "I read something about that. The new standard in energy-efficiency, something along those lines."

"Yeah, it's great." I pulled the door closed behind me. "It goes from LA to San Diego and back with stops all through Orange County on the way. It was a thing while I was running for Congress, but I never believed it would actually happen." I pulled my seatbelt on.

She slid her key into the ignition, pulling away from curb. "The station's at Third and Casper?"

"Yeah." I relaxed against the seat. "Thanks for doing this."

"No problem." She pulled up to the four-way stop at the corner, glanced from side to side, then went through. Her eyes slid over to me, and then back over to the road. "Actually, there's something I wanted to talk to you about."

Her hands were tight around the steering wheel, and her mouth was pressed into a line. My forehead creased. "What is it?" I asked.

"I'm not sure how to say this." She chewed on her lower lip. "Josh and I have been...I think there's something happening." She looked over at me, searching my face.

I shook my head. "Happening?"

"With him." Her eyes were back on the road again. "And...me."

"Oh! Wow." A jolt of shock propelled me upright. I'd always assumed that if anything was going to happen there, it would have been a long time ago. "It's serious?"

"I don't know." Her gaze drifted over to me again, and her eyes held the same probing look from before. "Not yet, but...I don't know. Maybe." 

Her silence was expectant, and she was watching me out of the corner of her eye. I cocked an eyebrow at her. "Are you asking for my blessing? Because I'm not really old enough to be your--"

"I know, Sam." She pulled to a stop at a traffic light and turned to face me. Her eyes bored into mine. "I know."

Confused wrinkles spread across my forehead. I shook my head.

"I know about you and Josh."

A boulder dropped into my stomach, and my eyes widened. No, wait, that could have meant anything. "You mean--"

"Yes." Her voice was adamant. "I mean."

"Oh." A dozen questions popped into my mind simultaneously, but I settled for one. "How?" It came out in a squeak.

"Everybody knows, Sam. I mean, everybody knew." She glanced up, and the light turned green. "I heard about it from Ginger and Bonnie."

"Ginger and...right." I'd known they must have overheard our fight--the walls in the Communications Office just weren't that thick. They'd both been so skittish for weeks after that day, like I'd suddenly grown an extra head. Or like they thought they could break me by speaking in a voice louder than a whisper. I looked out the window. My face was numb.

"So you're not denying it."

I turned back to her. "What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?" 

Her face was fixed in an impassive stare. "So it's true."

My teeth clenched. "Why am I here, Donna?"

"What?"

"Why am I here, why are you here, why are we here together?" I gestured in the air between us. "Why are you having this conversation with me instead of with your--with Josh?"

She threw both hands up from the wheel. "Because he won't go anywhere near this! Because anytime I say anything about you that doesn't have the word 'Senate' in it, he changes the subject!"

Her words stabbed into my gut. He wouldn't talk about it with her. "Okay. I can't talk about this."

The wheels rumbled against the road, filling the silence. I turned back to look out the window, but everything bled together: cars, houses, the empty sidewalks of suburban southern California. Two words rang in my head-- _everybody knew_ \--and an old ache welled up in me. So much effort to keep things secret, when people had probably been whispering about it in the White House mess all along.

"There are three questions I need answered," Donna said finally. "I mean...there are a million questions I need answered, but there are three answers I need to hear from you. And I'm going to ask you. So if you're really refusing to talk to me about this, then I guess...just don't say anything. Okay?"

I turned my head to face her. Her determined stare was back. I looked back out the window.

Donna sucked in a breath. "Does he like women?" 

I blinked, and a laugh bubbled up from inside of me. " _That's_ what you're worried about?"

A flash of her old insecurity shot across her face. "Well, does he?"

"Donna, you had an office next to his for seven years. How many women did he go through during that time?"

"Exactly." She pointed a finger at me. "And none of them lasted more than six months and four days, and he was with you for something like twenty _years._ "

"It wasn't twenty..." I shook my head. "Six months and four days?"

Her face flushed. "Amy Gardner."

"Ah." Her eyes were filled with shame, and my defenses weakened. It couldn't have been easy for her, all these years. Pining for Josh wasn't for the faint of heart. "He likes women," I offered.

"Really?" A flicker of hope sprang to her eyes. "It's not just some kind of...sad, self-deluded thing? Because--"

"Okay, I _really_ can't talk about this." I pressed my back against the door, holding up a hand.

She tossed her head back, rolling her eyes. "All right, all right." Her gaze crept over to me. "He likes women?"

I smiled at her. "He really does."

She smiled back. "Okay."

The car's engine hummed, and I balled a fist in my lap. After all these years, this was still so hard to talk about. Valerie was one thing--with her, 'Josh stories' had finally become just another piece of the past to share in our quieter moments. But this was Donna, and old taboos died hard.

"Is it really over?" she asked.

I gave her a hollow laugh. "You think we've been having the occasional secret weekend rendezvous in Tahiti? Come on, Donna."

"No," she dismissed, rolling her eyes again. She clamped her hands around the wheel, her knuckles white. "It's just...they say you two had an on-again, off-again thing that you kept going for years and years, okay? I just want to know he's not going to come running back to you the next time you say boo."

She definitely had that one backwards. I shook my head. "I'm not going to say boo."

"Yeah, well, forgive me if that doesn't fill me with confidence in _him,_ " she growled.

She sucked her cheeks in like she was trying not to cry. I felt torn between wanting to jump out of the car and wanting to reach over and give her a hug. "It's over," I said.

She gave me an embarrassed little smile. "Really?"

"Really." I gave my head a shake. It had been five years. Since he'd signed on to the Santos campaign, there had been nothing but the occasional two-line email. "It...couldn't be more over."

Donna came to a stop at a light. She turned to me, examined my face, and nodded. "Okay." Her eyes flicked up at the light, then landed on me again. They were tender. "Is this going to hurt you?"

My mouth quirked. "Is that your third question?"

"Yes." Her voice was gentle.

My mouth flattened into a line. Josh and I had always had more power to hurt each other when we were together than when we were apart.

"So that's the only one you're not going to answer, huh?" she said quietly.

The light turned green, and she pulled away from it. She bit her lip again, her eyes fixed on the road. The last of my defenses melted. Now I really did want to give her a hug.

I caught her eye and tilted my head toward the side of the road. "Pull over."

She looked around. "What, here?"

"There's a big shoulder. Just pull over."

Craning her neck, she navigated the car across two lanes of traffic. Gravel crackled against the tires, and she pulled to a stop. Her eyes were nervous. Cars whizzed past us behind her.

"I care about Josh," I said.

A hand flew to her mouth. Her forehead creased, and her eyes crumpled with pain.

I grabbed her free hand. "And I care about you."

Ever so slightly, she relaxed. She dropped her hand to her lap. 

"And if you two can make each other happy, then I think that's--that's great."

Tears leaked out of her eyes. She grabbed my hand, clasping it between both of hers. Then her arms were around me, pulling me toward her in a hug. I snaked an arm around her back and gave her a squeeze. My eyes were stinging.

Pulling back, she looked at my face, and a sob escaped from her throat. She hugged me again, tighter this time, her face buried in my neck. My throat was raw, and my arm pressed into her back. 

Finally, she drew back again. Her face was stained with tears, dark mascara stains under her eyes. "You have a--"

"--train to catch," I finished, pulling back the rest of the way.

"Yeah." Her voice was rough. She dabbed at her eyes with a knuckle and placed her hands on the wheel, checking the road behind her before pulling back into traffic.

Slowly, her expression relaxed, and she focused on the road. We drove the rest of the way in silence, and I just sat back, watching her. She was a different person now than the one who had shown up in Josh's office in New Hampshire and begged him to let her work on the Bartlet for America campaign. I knew what Josh saw in her. She was his equal.

Finally, she pulled up in front of the train station, and for a long moment, her hand hesitated on the ignition key. "You wouldn't happen to have any advice about--"

"Donna!"

She held up a hand. "Got it."

She was grinning. I smiled back.


	5. All That We Have Lost

**Sam: November 2006**

Their apartment was smaller than I'd expected. The high ceiling in the living room gave it an illusion of grandeur, but that was easily dispelled when a couple dozen mourners crowded into the room. It was a perfectly ordinary Santa Monica condo, really. I'd always imagined that my father had traded up.

Guilt gripped the back of my neck at the thought, and I stole a glance at Mom. Her eyes were dry, but they looked haunted, and Valerie was hunched around her like a protective shell. I leaned back against the wall, reaching for what looked like a cherry tart from the dessert cart. A bit of red filling stuck to my hand, and I licked it off. It tasted sour.

A woman's hand reached for my arm. "You must be the son." I blinked down at the woman--an older woman in a black dress that matched everyone else's. "I'm Catherine Peterson," she said, her mouth pinched into the proper frown everyone had been wearing all day. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

I took a step back from her, maneuvering myself to the other side of the dessert tray. "Thank you." Valerie glanced up at me from across the room. Her eyes were questioning, and I looked away.

"I worked with your father," the woman said, shaking her head. "Such a good man. Did you fly in from D.C. for the funeral?"

Exhaustion swept through me like a stiff wind. "No, I'm in L.A. now." Valerie had fixed her eyes on me now, like I couldn't be left unmonitored for five minutes. My teeth clenched, sending tension along my jawline. "I've been at Braddock and Crick for a few years."

"Oh, good, I was wondering how you were going to swing things, with the election and all." She inhaled a long, somber breath. "There wouldn't have been much time for politics today."

I attempted a smile. "I'm a private citizen. All I had to do was make sure I found time to vote."

"And your father would have wanted you to do that, I'm sure," she said, giving my hand a condescending pat. "Such a terrible thing--and so sudden. We were all so sure he'd still be coming in to the office at eighty."

Involuntarily, I slid my eyes over to my father's wife. _Julia,_ she'd asked me to call her, but the name wouldn't quite come, even in my head. Her shrunken figure was almost completely obscured behind a wall of her friends. I resisted the wave of sympathy welling in my chest. My father's late nights at the office had ended up translating to something else when all was said and done.

"He always did work very hard," I said, not quite managing to keep the sarcasm from creeping into my voice.

Mrs. Peterson followed my gaze with her own. She leaned in toward me like a conspirator. "You know, I think it's just wonderful that your mother is able to put the past behind her and be here like this," she confided. "It shows real maturity."

Rage flared in me, and the cherry tart crumbled in my hand. "She is well over the age of majority," I snapped. Across the room, Valerie leaned in quickly toward my mother, and then stood.

Confusion creased Mrs. Peterson's forehead. "I'm sorry?" 

"I mean, maturity's hardly the issue--"

"Hello again, Mrs. Peterson," Valerie interrupted. She laid a hand on my arm as she swooped in, sending the ice rattling in her glass. "Mind if I borrow Sam for a minute?" 

"Oh. Yes." The lines in Mrs. Peterson's forehead deepened. "I mean, go right ahead."

Valerie flashed her a smile, her fingers tightening around my arm. "Thank you," she said, pulling me away from the cart and into the hall.

The voices from the living room grew muffled. I glared at Valerie, shaking off her hand. "I didn't ask to be rescued."

The corner of her mouth turned up. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were enjoying that conversation."

I shifted my weight to my back leg, drew in a long breath, and held it. I let it back out again. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Mrs. Peterson joining the throng of women surrounding my father's wife. "Thank you," I said, my voice grudging.

"You're welcome." 

I leaned against the wall, and my rage stilled to a slow burn. My grip loosened around the tart in my hand, and I looked down at it. I'd squashed it into a mass of congealed red goo and crumbs.

Valerie fished a napkin out of her pocket and slipped it into my hand. I released the gooey mass into it and gave my hand a couple of futile dabs, my mouth flattening into a line. "For that, too."

She cocked her head to one side. "You know, I played hooky from my mom's wake. I got myself a strong drink and crawled into bed for a while to watch bad game shows."

Bile licked the back of my throat, and I grimaced. "I'm not going to lie down in their bedroom."

"There's a guest bedroom."

I blinked at her.

"I checked. It's all done up in this disgusting rose color, but if you can live with that, it's got a pretty nice bed."

I rubbed my forehead with the side of my hand, wiping away beads of sweat. A dry laugh fell out of my mouth.

Valerie slipped the napkin out of my hand and replaced it with her drink. "Come on," she said, tugging me down the hall.

I twisted away from her. "No, I--Valerie." She stopped in front of a closed door, and nudged it open with her free hand.

"Listen." She met my eyes, and hers were steel. "I figure we've got about twenty more minutes before we can leave without looking like complete assholes. If you spend fifteen of that in here, you're less likely to say stuff you're going to regret to people you'll never see again."

I glanced around. A flowered bedspread lined the bed, and a pair of bicycles were propped up against the far wall. The room really was a disgusting rose color, right down to the pristine burgundy carpet.

Valerie pointed at the flat-screen television on the wall opposite the bed. "Watch some Wheel of Fortune."

I pushed out a defeated sigh. "Okay."

She grazed my forehead with a kiss. "I'll be back in fifteen minutes." 

The door clicked shut behind her, silencing the voices from the living room. I was alone.

Tentatively, I let my eyes travel around the room again. The dresser was old, probably an antique. I walked over to it, running a hand along its edge. It was rough where the stain had worn off the dark wood, and some sort of crocheted placemat sat on its surface. Perched on it was a small framed picture of my father. I sat Valerie's drink down on the placemat and picked the picture up.

He was on the beach, leaning back against a lawn chair, a glass of wine in his hand. His smile was big and full, and an involuntary smile played at my own mouth in response. His moustache was slightly overgrown, dipping a little too far over his upper lip. 

I froze. He'd had a moustache then. The picture had been taken before he'd shaved it off. Which put it sometime in the mid-nineties. 

A sour taste coated my tongue. I slapped the frame onto the dresser, face down, and my hand jerked back. He'd made his choice. Long before he'd been found out, he'd made his choice.

I spun around, pulled to the television like a magnet. Nothing could be more distracting than election night coverage. The bed dented as I sat down on the edge, and I reached across to the table for the remote. I glanced at my watch. It was 6:30 on the east coast. They'd have started counting.

The television hummed to life, and I flipped past a Seinfeld rerun to CNN. A picture of Leo in his Air Force uniform flashed across the screen, followed by a more recent shot of him in the Oval Office. The one of the vice presidential debate, shot from below, made him look like a real statesman, and I cracked a smile. It was still hard to imagine that Leo was this close to being vice president. Then the image shifted to one of him and Santos at a rally, hands clasped and held high. Superimposed on it in stark black letters were the words: 'LEO MCGARRY: 1946-2006'.

All the color drained out of the room. I sat bolt upright.

The anchor's face mirrored Mrs. Peterson's, awash with a very proper-looking sadness. "For those just tuning in, some shocking, and some would say heartbreaking news tonight," she said, her voice reverent. "Leo McGarry, vice presidential candidate, former White House advisor and Chief of Staff, former Secretary of Labor and decorated Vietnam veteran, is dead at the age of sixty. He was rushed to the hospital after a second massive heart attack--"

My mind closed in on itself. I was glued to the spot, but the images on the screen bled together, and I gave myself over to an overpowering wave of nausea. He'd recovered from his heart attack. He'd had the best doctors, the best physical therapy. And now he'd--

Josh would be--

A pain welled up in my throat, and I pressed a finger into the palm of my hand. A nail dug into my flesh, turning it white.

From behind me, the door squeaked open. "Hope you don't mind, I gave you the full twenty," Valerie said. "And...I'm pretty sure that's not Wheel of Fortune." 

I turned toward her. Her smile drained away, taking the color in her cheeks with it. I looked back at the television. 

The camera was trained on the field reporter at the Santos party. "There's no word yet from the Congressman," she said. "We don't know if he's at the hospital or if he's right here, preparing to give what will undoubtedly be the most difficult speech of his career, win or lose. And with the shocking death of Leo McGarry tonight, no one knows yet what a win could mean for the vice presidency."

Valerie let out a little gasp, and then suddenly she was sitting next to me. "Oh, God, Sam." She took my hand. "Oh, God. I'm so sorry."

I glanced around the room. I was suddenly rudderless. There was going to be a funeral. Everyone would be there--the President, Toby, Josh. I looked at Valerie. "I've--I've got to get out there."

"Out--to D.C.?" She shook her head.

"For the..." A big funeral, like we'd had for Mrs. Landingham. The stark, Gothic lines of the National Cathedral. Leo, lying in a casket, his hands crossed on his chest. I squeezed my hand around Valerie's, but I was already numb.

Valerie reached for my knee with her free hand. "We can tell them what's going on here. They'll understand."

I gave my head a vigorous shake. "Valerie, do you even know who this man was?" A rush of anger propelled me to my feet.

"I do," she said, squeezing my fingers.

I shook off her touch. "You don't. He was--" 

I hugged my arms to my chest. He'd been everything the anchor had said and then some. Secretary of Labor, decorated war veteran, manager of President Bartlet's first campaign, a direct influence on every major election for the last twenty-five years...

"He was--he was Leo McGarry! There isn't anybody..." I glanced around the room. The rage was back, burning a hole in my chest. "I'll tell you one thing: Leo gave me a lot more than the man we put into the ground this afternoon ever did."

"I know." Valerie grabbed my hand again. "I know."

I ground my teeth together. "When I found out about what my father was...you know who was there for me?"

She was nodding. "Leo McGarry."

"And Josh, and Toby, and Donna, and all the people who are going to be at Leo's funeral. And do you know who wasn't there? For that matter, do you know who was never there, not once? Who didn't make it to my high school graduation? Who didn't bother calling me until three weeks after I lost the election? Who never gave my mother a real apology for what he did to her for twenty-eight years?"

Valerie's face crumpled. "Sam." Her voice came out in a whisper.

"We only talked about it once. It was so awful that for the first time in my life, _I_ started avoiding _him_. I stopped calling. And you know what he did? He just let me go."

Her hand pressed into mine, tears trickling down her face.

"He never even tried to make things up to me. I don't know if he felt so guilty that he just couldn't--or if he just didn't--" 

My voice cracked. Red-hot anger clawed at my throat, and I tried to swallow around it.

"You know what the last thing I heard from him was?" I said. "He emailed me a link to an article he thought I should read. Back in September. I think it was something about the stock market."

"He was a shitty father," she said.

I pressed my eyes shut, my head lifted toward the ceiling. My jaw locked, sending spasms down my neck.

Valerie grabbed at my other hand, squeezing both of them together. "He was a bastard. He was a motherfucker. He was an asshole."

My head dropped, and I opened my eyes.

"Say it."

I stared at her.

She nudged me with a shake of her hand. "He was an asshole. Say it."

Tension pooled in the back of my throat. "He was an asshole," I spat.

"He was a shitty father." Valerie tugged at my arm, pulling me down to the bed.

I sat down next to her. "He was a shitty father," I said, quietly.

Her eyes were inches from mine. She put a hand on my face. "But he was _your_ shitty father. And he's dead. And you loved him."

My eyes swam with tears. I pressed my forehead against her shoulder and let them fall, staining her light blue shirt with patches of dark. Her arm reached around my back, pulling me close. 

When I finally looked up, they were showing the montage again, flipping through images from Leo's life like a cheap biography on some cable channel. My throat burned, and I let my head fall back down to Valerie's shoulder. 

"I know you want to fly out there tonight," she said gently.

I sat up, pointing at the television. "When Leo first hired me on to work for the man who was going to be the next President of the United States, I'd written two or three big speeches. For a Senate campaign, when I was twenty-two. He still gave me a chance." I shuddered out a breath. "I can't just not _be_ there. That would be..." I swallowed the thought.

"I know. There's nothing about this that doesn't suck," she said, patting my leg. "I'm just afraid that if you go anywhere tonight other than back to Laguna Beach with your mother, you'll hate yourself for it someday. Am I wrong about that?"

My eyes unfocused, then refocused. I closed them. Slowly, I shook my head.

Valerie kissed me on the temple, reaching across me for the remote. She flicked the television off. "So let's go rescue her from Mrs. Peterson, okay?"

I pushed out a hollow laugh, and it turned into a sigh. "Yeah," I admitted. I'd call Josh tomorrow with my regrets. 

I winced. So many regrets.

"Yeah," I repeated, drawing a breath into my lungs, long and full. "Okay."

Valerie tilted her head at me, her eyes dark with concern. A rush of love swept through me. Imagining the last couple of days without her--

I grabbed onto her hand, pressing it between my own, and pulled her to her feet as I stood. I kissed her on the temple and gave her hand a tug. California was home now, and home was waiting.


	6. Déjà vu

**Sam: November 2006**

The elevator doors opened onto my floor, and I stepped into the dim lobby. The building management supposedly kept the lights low for ambience, but right now it just felt like the road to the gallows.

I straightened, tightening my grip on my briefcase. This was completely different from last time--I had to keep reminding myself of that. This was 2006, not 1997. This time, there would be no snap decisions. I would talk over Josh's offer with Valerie, and we'd figure it out together. And Valerie wasn't Lisa. If anything could shake that unflappable confidence, I hadn't seen any evidence of it. Not in two years. 

I paused just outside the front door, my stomach fluttering. I was about to put that to the test.

Drawing in a long breath, I slid my key into the lock and opened the door. Valerie's head was buried in an open kitchen cupboard, but she turned as I let the door latch behind me. Her eyes met mine, her face spreading in a smile. "You're home early."

I attempted my own smile in response. "So are you." Her bare feet looked out of place while she was still in her work clothes, a trim navy blue suit that hugged her figure. On her, it always looked like a costume. 

"I hope you're in the mood for Italian," she said, and let a stack of plates drop onto the counter with a clank.

It was three steps to the kitchen, and the pair of calzones on the counter by the sink stared up at me. Lisa had picked up Italian takeout, too, back then. Some sort of sandwich for me, and a salad for herself. It might have even been a calzone.

"I put the salad in one of those little plastic containers in the fridge," Valerie said, her voice cheerful. "I didn't know if you'd rather take it to work tomorrow, but it's in there if you want it."

My stomach sank, and I set my briefcase down. The similarities were superficial. They didn't mean anything.

"How was your day?" Valerie leaned her head in toward mine, and I gave her an absent peck on the lips. She brushed a hair off my suit. "You know, it's kind of fun to ask you that," she said playfully. "I could get used to it."

The sinking feeling deepened, and my eyes slid back over to the calzones. For the first time, I regretted that we had the kind of relationship where we told each other everything. 

She tilted her head at me. "What's with the guilty look?" She flicked at my chin with a finger. "Don't tell me--you'd have preferred Chinese for your last meal."

I reached into the silverware drawer and pulled out two sets of forks and knives. I let them fall onto the counter. I had to do this now.

"Okay." I turned around, holding up a hand. "Have you ever felt like something you were experiencing was sort of familiar, except it really wasn't?"

She shook her head. "What?"

I tried again. "Have you ever had an experience where all the surface details are just like something that's happened before? Except that because you were there the first time, you know how different this time really is?"

"You mean sort of like déjà vu?"

"No, something that's really happening. It's just not _really_ the same. Even though somebody who wasn't there both times might...think it is."

"You mean like--" Confusion spread across her face, pinching at her mouth. "No, I'm pretty sure I have no idea what you're talking about."

I combed through my brain for an analogy. "Remember how you were telling me about the time when Charley was running a fever and had a stomachache, and it turned out to be her appendix? Well, if she had those same symptoms again, you wouldn't assume it was the same thing, right?"

Valerie plopped a calzone onto her plate, grabbing one of the forks and a knife from the counter. "You mean because she only had one appendix?" 

I frowned. "Okay, that probably wasn't the best example."

Her silverware clinked against her plate, and she turned toward the table. "By the way, there's a message on the voicemail from Josh. He's in town." She shot a look at me over her shoulder. "You never told me he was funny." 

Guilt chewed at the inside of my throat. I couldn't meet her eyes.

"Wait." She set her fork and knife down on the counter, her eyes suddenly probing. "You've already talked to him."

I sucked in a breath. "Actually--"

"He showed up at your office today," she blurted. Her face went through a dozen expressions in seconds. 

My shoulders stiffened. "It's not what you're thinking."

"Oh, my God. Now that the election is--he offered you a job." She stumbled back a step. "You're thinking about taking it!"

I braced myself against the counter. "Deputy chief of staff."

Her eyes were wide, her mouth half-open. She started to giggle.

"I'm not going to--"

A gale of laughter cut me off. She grabbed at the counter to hold herself upright. 

My face was burning. "This isn't like..." I attempted. But her laughter was coming in waves now, and there was no interrupting it. She slid down the cupboards, rocking backward, and her plate dropped from her hand, sending the calzone bouncing across the floor like a rubber ball. She tried to prop herself up against the cupboards, but another round of laughter shook her, and she slid back down to the floor. 

Her face was red, but the broad smile on her face was genuine. Relief flooded my veins. This wasn't hysteria, this was the absurdity of it all. It _was_ absurd, it suddenly struck me, and a chuckle escaped from my mouth. And then I was laughing, too, a pain in my stomach, my sides raw. I fell to my knees, grabbing onto the drawer handle as I went down, but the drawer flew open, sending a pile of dishtowels to the floor. I collapsed onto them, breathless and shaking.

After it had subsided, Valerie crawled over to me, tucking herself into the crook of my arm. I wrapped it around her and kissed the top of her head. She felt warm against me, her body weight a steady, reassuring pressure.

"Wouldn't it mean giving up on the Senate?" she finally asked, propping herself up on one elbow. "I thought Josh was the one who wanted you to run."

I pulled myself up off the floor, leaning back against the cupboard. "Jenkins is going to finish her term. I don't need to be back out here full-time for another ten months or so." Valerie put a hand on my arm, maintaining the contact. "Josh just wants me to help him get started. Nobody stays in that job for more than a year, anyway, unless they're--"

"Crazy?" She grinned.

My mouth quirked. "I was going to say unless they're Josh, but I guess that fits." I wove my fingers through her hair. "I'm not going to leave you, not even for ten months," I said, putting as much determination as I could into my words. "So if you don't want to go, that's it. I'll tell him no." 

She pressed her lips together. "So...we'd move to D.C."

Her voice sounded matter-of-fact. Not enthusiastic, but not opposed. I swallowed. "You'd have to take the bar again."

She shrugged. "I can do this kind of work from anywhere. If it's LA today and San Francisco tomorrow, there's no reason it can't be D.C. the next day. And if it's only going to be a year, anyway..." She tilted her head, and a thoughtful expression crossed her face. "Although, you know, taking the bar in D.C. might not be a bad idea."

"It'd take you away from Charley," I said quietly.

She shook her head. "Charley's back in San Francisco, living the happily motherless life of a twenty-year-old woman. And she already knows that if she needs me, I'll hop on a plane no matter where I am."

I drew in a breath, and it felt like relief. I cupped a hand around her shoulder. "You're not worried about..." My voice trailed off. She wasn't Lisa, but she was human.

"What?"

I met her eyes. "About Josh." 

She breathed out a laugh. "You're not going to cheat on me, Sam. You wouldn't dare. Besides, when would you find the time?" She sat up next to me. "Are you sure this is what _you_ want, though?"

I shook my head, my forehead creasing.

"I mean, you just buried your father." She ticked off counter-arguments on her fingers. The wedding's in five months, and it's out here. You'd have to close this place up, or even sell it. And moving across the country would mean flying back here for speaking engagements." She folded her hands in her lap. "That's an incredible amount of stress. Are you sure you want to pile working in the White House on top of all that?"

Memories chased through my mind. The MS fallout had dragged everyone down, and the way things had gone with Josh hadn't made it any easier. When I'd left, I'd been ready to go. But there would always be something unmatchable about the feeling of really being able to change the world. "I think I might."

Valerie nodded. Her expression was steady, unsurprised. "Then I guess there's just one more question."

"What's that?"

Her eyes scrutinized me. "Do you want to work for Josh again?"

I drew in a long breath and let it back out through my nose. The only thing better than saving the world was saving it with Josh.

I pulled myself toward her, letting my head fall against her lap. My eyes flicked up to meet hers. "I think I might," I said quietly.

Slowly, she nodded again. "Okay," she said, reaching down to squeeze my hand. "Let's do it."

A rush of love filled me, and I sat up, leaning in toward her. Her lips were warm against mine, and she tasted like a promise.


	7. Pillow Talk

**Josh: December 2006**

Donna stretched an arm across me, letting her skin slide against mine. It was heavy on my chest, but in a nice way, not an awkward one. It was the kind of thing they called intimate. That's really what this whole thing was. Intimate.

Weirdly enough, it wasn't making my feet start to itch. 

I gave her a smile, lacing my fingers through hers underneath the covers. Two months now, we'd been doing this, and she'd slept at my place every night for the past week. The other shoe hadn't dropped yet.

The fingers of her other hand traced warm circles on my chest, glancing off my scar. "Why didn't it work out with Amy?"

I smirked. "Is this part of the Talk?"

She cocked an eyebrow at me. "Are you ready for the Talk?"

A nerve pricked at the back of my neck. Intimate was one thing, but _the Talk_ was another story. Those things could start out okay, but sooner or later there were always promises I didn't want to keep--or worse, tears. Even talking about Amy was more comfortable than that.

She sniffed. "Yeah, didn't think so."

I stuffed my pillow under my arm, propping myself up with it, and gave her my best smile. "Come on, would _you_ have put up with Amy Gardner for six months?"

"I wouldn't have put up with Amy Gardner for six days." She turned over onto her back. Her voice was adamant. "I wouldn't have put up with her for six hours."

I leaned in to kiss her shoulder. "Yeah, the dirty dishes in the sink got old real fast." I glided up to her neck. "And so did the Van Morrison at four in the morning." I pressed my forehead to hers. "You know, when she couldn't sleep, she'd turn up the stereo and dance around the living room in a pair of lace panties?"

Donna's eyebrow inched up again. "You probably loved it."

"Are you kidding me? Anybody who interrupts my three-hour nighttime nap?" I balled a fist and put on a mock glare.

Her eyes were laughing. She spread her palm flat on my chest.

I put my head back down on the pillow and stared up at the ceiling. Explaining why it hadn't worked out with Amy was kind of like India explaining why it hadn't worked out with Pakistan. It had never been anything but explosive, from the day we'd met until the day we'd both decided to stop trying.

"Maybe we were too much alike," I said.

Donna snorted. "You and Amy."

I looked at her, smirking. "You don't think so."

Donna rolled her eyes. "Josh, she makes you look like a right-wing nutbar."

"No, I mean--" I cut myself off. Amy was working for Vera Green now, the only member of Congress to openly campaign for a single-payer health care system on the British model. She'd been pilloried for it again and again, and Amy'd just signed on as her latest champion. "Okay," I conceded. "But we both had too much--I mean, everything was a competition."

Her laugh was a snicker. "Now, that I believe."

"It was like, I never knew for sure whether she was on my side or not." Donna looked more sympathetic than jealous. This was good. I ran a hand up her arm. "I got sick of watching my back in my own apartment," I added.

She drew back, just a little, and looked me in the eyes. Her smile slipped away. "I take it that's not the same reason why it didn't work out with Sam."

I froze. All the air in the room froze with me, and I couldn't breathe. "Why what didn't work out with Sam?"

Her stare didn't waver. She was waiting.

She knew.

A rush of adrenaline pumped through me, from head to chest to fingertips. I had to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. 

"I have to--" I threw back the covers, and a sheet of cold air assaulted me as I fled to the bathroom. The door slammed behind me, rattling the medicine chest.

"Josh?" The door muffled Donna's voice.

I lurched forward, spreading my palm flat against the mirror. I was panting. An outline of fog spread out on the mirror, echoing away from the warmth of my hand.

"Josh, come on," she repeated. This time it was coming from right outside. "I know you never guessed about Ronna and Cindy, but most of us aren't as oblivious as you are."

My arm shook as I grabbed for a towel, wrapping it around my waist. This wasn't happening.

"You can't hide in there forever, okay?" She sounded sharp, stubborn. "At some point, you're going to have to tell me about this. I want to hear it in your words."

My words. Which meant she'd already heard it in someone else's. I shuddered.

And then there was nothing from the other side of the door, just silence. It stretched out over minutes. As they ticked by, my panic faded, replaced by a worry that she'd just up and left. Somehow that didn't feel any better. 

I peered at the door, grimacing. For the first time since I was ten, I wished for X-ray vision.

I forced my gaze back to the mirror. My hair--what was left of it--was jutting out from all sides, and my face was red. 

The best woman you've ever been with is out there, I told my reflection. What the hell are you doing in here?

I couldn't move.

Then the bathroom door swung open, crashing into me. I stumbled back, grabbing my arm where the door had hit it and gave Donna my best offended look. "God! Don't you know how to knock?"

Her eyes dropped to my towel. "Are you going to take a shower?"

Every inch of her was exposed. Her skin was white and pricked with goosebumps, her shoulders curving around to her breasts, her nipples stiffened into tiny points. She had no right to look this amazing right now. "I--I might!"

She glared at me. 

My heart was pounding. I held up a hand. "All right." 

I drew in a long breath and turned around, away from her. I grabbed at the back of my neck, clutching my hair by the roots. I'd told Amy--something, anyway. The world hadn't ended.

Slowly, I turned back around, reaching for what I'd said back then. "There was a--a thing. With Sam. After I was shot."

She didn't even blink.

Okay, this wasn't any easier the second time. "It was--you know I was pretty screwed up. I mean, seriously screwed up. And he was--I mean, I've known him a long time. It wasn't, like, a gay thing."

Her eyebrows arched, more in "you've-got-to-be-kidding-me" than in surprise.

My eyes dropped to the floor. I tried to swallow, but my throat felt raw, as if I'd been yelling, or maybe crying. "It didn't even last a year."

Donna pressed her lips together, folding her arms across her breasts. She wasn't buying it.

I pushed a sigh out through clenched teeth, and with it went the last of my defenses. "Okay, screw this," I said, waving a hand in the air. "I'm not going to try to tell you it wasn't a big deal, because it was. It was a huge, enormous, life-shattering deal. And I screwed it up so bad that if I live another hundred years, I'll never be able to make it up to him. But then I fell in love with you, and somehow we ended up here--"

"What?" 

My forehead creased. "We ended up...here?"

Her hand made a rapid circular motion. "No, back up one."

Her eyes were big and round and a pale, watery blue. She looked expectant, maybe even a little scared. A breath of relief flowed through my lungs, and I sank back into the familiarity of the driver's seat. I felt myself start to grin.

Edging toward her, I cupped my hands around either side of her face and wove my fingers through her hair. "I love your hair," I said, stepping closer. "I love your skin." Bending down, I breathed into her ear. "I even love your ears."

She shivered. My hand followed the curve of her spine up her back, and I pulled her back to arm's length, looking into her eyes. 

"I love that when I come up with some big idea that's gonna blow everybody out of the water, you can always make it even better," I said.

A smile lit up her face. "I love that, too."

I reached for her hand, placing a kiss on her fingertips. I pressed my forehead to hers. Her eyes were wet, but behind them was a flicker of desire. 

She tucked a finger around the towel, and it fell away. I slid against her.


	8. Something Borrowed

**Josh: April 2007**

It was your typical wedding reception--ordinary, even. Everything in the room seemed ordinary. 

The thought struck me suddenly, and the corners of my mouth tightened into a frown. It was true. The ballroom had a high ceiling with three gaudy crystal chandeliers. The smells coming from the kitchen were making my stomach growl, but that was mainly because my afternoon flight from D.C. had left no time for a decent lunch. The string quartet were your standard four guys in penguin suits, and apart from a couple of 80s hits thrown in for shock value, they were playing the same dozen classical pieces I'd been hearing at wedding receptions since I was six. There was nothing to distinguish this from any other wedding reception, nothing at all that was anything like Sam.

The chair next to me scraped against the floor. "I got you a beer," Donna said.

"Thanks," I mumbled.

My eyes scanned the dance floor. It was mostly empty, just a few nondescript couples forming a backdrop for Sam and a kid who looked like younger version of Valerie. C.J. danced past with a man I didn't recognize, and she and Sam exchanged a grin the size of California. The kid rolled her eyes, but she was smiling, too. That had to be Valerie's daughter, the one who lived in San Francisco.

Valerie's daughter. Sam's stepdaughter.

I fidgeted in my chair. I turned away, my eyes finally focusing on the spot next to me where Donna had appeared. "Have you ever noticed that wedding receptions are pretty much all alike?" I asked her.

Donna snorted, giving me one of her lopsided smiles. "You think that now. Just wait until you have to go to your first Moss family wedding. My sister and her husband drove all the kids from the church to the reception in the wagon they use for hayrides."

I blinked. "Please don't tell me it still had hay in it."

"Okay, I won't tell you," she said, grinning.

"No, but seriously." I grabbed my glass, throwing a glance at Valerie over my shoulder. She was wearing a white dress that was short, but somehow it still managed to scream _bride_. "Even the clothes are always the same. I swear, she's got the same dress on that my cousin wore last year."

Donna gave her a once-over of pretend scrutiny. "Could be. Maybe she bought it on eBay."

I sucked back a gulp of my beer. It hit my mouth all at once and with a familiar bittersweetness, and I froze mid-swallow. A wash of memories swept through me: a campaign in California that marked the beginning of hope, and that awful night in my apartment that marked the end of it.

It was the Lagunitas Pale Ale. 

A cough shook my throat, but I resisted the urge to spit it out and swallowed the rest. It tasted more like failure than nostalgia. A dull ache formed in my chest.

Donna tilted her head, her forehead wrinkling. "Sorry, did you want the pilsener?"

"Nah, it's--it's fine." The aftertaste sat on my tongue, not budging. 

I pushed the glass away and turned back toward the dance floor. Valerie was cutting in now, taking Sam's hand in a gesture of over-the-top formality. He beamed at her like she'd just given him a sailboat and an election win and everything else that was good in the world. The dull ache sank into my stomach.

"She's interesting-looking, isn't she?"

I looked back at Donna. "What?" 

She cocked her head at me. "Don't you think?"

I shrugged and shot another glance at Valerie. "Yeah, sure."

"The first time I met her, I was a little surprised," Donna said, swirling her wine glass. "I mean, she's not exactly in Sam's league. But she draws your attention. You just have to keep looking at her."

"I suppose if you like stringy hair and freckles."

The string quartet made a ridiculous but still expert transition between some Bach fugue and "Celebration." A chuckle rose up from the crowd, and my eyes crept back over to the dance floor. Sam ducked his head to whisper something in Valerie's ear, and she started laughing. They were both laughing, and in a way that looked like they'd known each other for years. Which they had, by now.

I swallowed. She seemed all right. At least she wasn't an MBA. And Sam being married would eliminate some awkward questions down the line.

"Is this weird?" Donna asked quietly.

The corner of my mouth quirked, and I tilted my head toward the musicians. "A string quartet that can play Kool and the Gang? Yeah, I'd say that's pretty weird."

Donna shrugged. "I meant, you know." Her eyes flicked over to the dance floor, then back again to me. "Sam's wedding."

A twinge of discomfort spread through my chest, and I shifted in my seat. "Nah." 

I looked back at the dance floor. One of Sam's hands was on Valerie's shoulder, the other on her back. His face was a little red, but he was still beaming. "Maybe a little," I admitted.

My eyes traveled back, landing on the half-empty glass of Lagunitas on the table. The twinge in my chest was back, and I adjusted my tie. I leaned in toward Donna, curling around her, grazing her ear with my mouth. "Okay, it's weird," I said, my voice low.

She grabbed hold of my hand and squeezed. It was strong, and steady enough that I knew it wouldn't let up. I leaned my head against hers, squeezing back.

She stood, giving my arm a firm tug. "Come on," she said, pulling me toward the dance floor. Just at the edge of it, she stopped and put one hand on my shoulder, the other on my waist. We both smiled, falling comfortably into step.

I pulled her close, cupping a hand around the bare skin on her shoulder. I leaned down to press my face against hers. This was good. There was definitely no one else I would have wanted to be here with. 

And this thing with Donna was turning into the kind of thing where I said stuff like that out loud.

I curled around her again, my mouth at her ear. "You know, I wouldn't want to be here with anybody else," I tried. 

Her answering smile was wide and full, and she put her head on my chest.


	9. Ricochet

**Josh: June 2007**

The door slid open, and Stanley appeared in the doorway. "Josh," he said, my name in place of a greeting. He gave me a smile and gestured into his office. "Come on in."

I set an old April _Sports Illustrated_ back on the end table and folded into a stretch as I followed him inside. The windows that lined the walls looked out onto the street below, where street lights, traffic lights, and car headlights blended together to block out the usual vista of the FBI building. This place felt different after hours: a better view, no annoying secretary.

I sat down on the edge of the familiar chair, but didn't lean back. "You know, I almost cancelled today," I admitted.

Stanley barely reacted, just tilted his head slightly. "Why is that?"

"I guess because things are going so great," I said, unable to hold back a smile. "But I figured if I did, you'd assume I was ducking you." 

His eyebrow quirked. We both remembered how I'd once cancelled and then quit coming altogether the next week. Since starting back, I'd had to be a lot more careful, even when there was a real reason not to come in.

I relaxed against the chair. "Anyway. Here I am."

"So things have been going well?" he asked.

"Yeah. Donna is..." This morning we'd both been running late, so we'd grabbed a fistful of cherries for breakfast and eaten them in the car. She'd made a show of feeding me mine, and we'd laughed through a dry run of her meeting with the rest of the First Lady's staff. "Everything's really good, there. We're actually talking about her moving in."

Stanley's eyebrows perked up a little more. "That's a big step."

"And everything's great at the office, too." I gave my head a little shake. "I mean, the President's polling like President Bartlet did in his own heyday, and Sam is the best deputy I could have asked for. He's really whipped things into shape." I sniffed, giving him a little smile. "It's all just--great."

"You sound surprised."

"I guess I am." I gave him a sheepish smile. "It's kinda freaking me out."

"Why don't you tell me about that?"

I drummed my fingers on the arm of the chair. Success at work was nothing new--it was the success in my off-hours that was suddenly feeling like the last puzzle piece falling into place. "Well, you've got to admit I don't have the best track record with women," I began. "I mean, the last time I tried to have any kind of a serious relationship, it was with Amy Gardner."

Stanley nodded. "And before that, there was Sam."

My heart jumped. We'd only discussed that a couple of times. I'd brought it up shortly after coming back, more to prove to myself that I could talk about it than to actually talk about it. It had been years.

"Having him around all the time again must be bringing back some memories," he said.

I tried to shrug, but it felt more like a muscle spasm. I slouched down in my chair.

"But things are different with Donna." 

"Well, yeah," I scoffed, sitting up straight again.

"Why don't you tell me about that?" 

My mouth quirked at one corner. "Well, there's the whole thing about anatomy."

Stanley let out a chuckle. "Apart from that."

My gaze dropped to the floor, and Sam's angry voice reverberated in my head. It had only been in the last couple months that he'd looked at me without disappointment. I grabbed onto the arm of the chair and squeezed. "Things are just...good. I don't want to screw it up."

"Are you afraid that might happen?"

My grip on the chair relaxed. Donna and I were both busier than we'd ever been, but when we came home to each other it was always like wrapping ourselves in a cocoon. I never felt on edge with her around. Not one bit. "No." I threw up a hand. "I mean, yeah, nobody's ever _completely_ comfortable, right? But she doesn't..." 

I could still see Sam sitting at my kitchen table, his mouth pinched and his eyes darkened with reproach. It could have been a reaction to anything that I'd said--that I didn't want us to drive in to work together, that it might be better if he came in the back way, that he should let me get the newspaper from the front step. His response had always been that same look. I shuddered.

"Do you feel like you screwed things up with Sam?"

I shot Stanley an incredulous look, and a dry laugh fell out of my mouth. "Well, yeah!"

"How did you screw things up?"

My gaze slid away again. Sam had kept setting the bar higher, and I'd kept jumping. Until I'd tripped and fallen flat on my face. A sharp pain seared the back of my throat, and I swallowed. 

This wasn't what I'd wanted to talk about. I looked up, my eyes meeting Stanley's in a glare. "You know, I was trying to tell you about Donna."

"Go ahead, then," he conceded.

I balled a fist in my lap. The one day I'd come in with nothing but good news, he had to dredge up all this crap from the past. "Donna, she--she can just let me be. She doesn't--there's no pressure. It's good."

"No pressure." His eyes were nudging me. "And that's a very different way for things to feel."

I tried to stare him down. I slouched down in my seat again.

"What was it like with Sam?"

"He wanted things I couldn't give him." My voice was quiet. It sounded weak. I cleared my throat.

"He wanted you to tell other people about your relationship."

The burning in my throat spread to my face. I shrugged.

"And that was hard for you."

Anger flared in me. "I couldn't, okay?"

Stanley just stared. The jackass was judging me.

My eyes narrowed at him. "You have no idea what--with my job. And then suddenly I'd have been the gay guy who works for the President, which is completely ridiculous, because I have had a lot of very enjoyable sex with women. A lot of women."

"Okay," he said. He didn't believe me. 

I scooted to the edge of my seat, backing him down. "It was so easy for Sam to go to Leo and say 'guess what, I'm bisexual!'" I shook my hands in the air in front of me. "But there were never any other guys for me. It was just Sam...and what the hell do you call that? I would have lost years trying to explain it to people. Years."

Stanley did that slow nod thing of his, but he was still looking at me. 

My hands clenched into fists around the chair's arms. "So if you think that was selfish, then fine, I'm selfish. I tried to do it, and I couldn't. I couldn't be what he needed me to be."

A long moment stretched between us. Stanley's eyes were still fixed on mine in that goddamned impermeable stare, and the only sound was my own ragged breathing.

Finally, he dropped his eyes, and his face relaxed into something that looked almost like sympathy. "Actually, I don't think it was selfish at all," he said. His voice was gentle, but firm.

I caught on a breath. 

He leaned in toward me, resting his elbows on his knees. "You started that relationship right after you had suffered a major trauma. At a time when the last thing you needed was more pressure."

My anger fell away, but my throat felt suddenly full. My eyes were stinging.

"He demanded a lot of you, didn't he?" Stanley asked, softly.

My eyelids fell shut. I shook my head slowly, rhythmically.

"You were feeling out of control. You were trying to get your life back."

A pressure started building behind my eyes, shooting straight through to my temples. "It wasn't like that," I whispered.

"Wasn't it?"

I opened my eyes. The tears that had formed evaporated without falling. "Sam is--he deserved better. And so now he's got his wife and I've got another chance at something real with Donna and it's all..."

Stanley's mouth pressed into a line, and he shifted into his patented unreadable stare.

"I screwed it up," I said, my voice insistent. "I couldn't give him what he needed." I drew in a long breath, letting my shoulders relax a little. "But there's something I _can_ do for him."

"What's that?"

I straightened, pushing my shoulders back. My eyes met Stanley's, unwavering. "I can make him President."


End file.
